


Of Partridges and Pear Trees

by AvaJune



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mental Health Issues, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaJune/pseuds/AvaJune
Summary: ‘She’s my sister in everything but blood.’That’s what he’d been telling anyone who had asked him about Hermione all through school and for all 8 years after the war. He’d believed it when he said it, too. How unfortunate for Harry, then, that he now realized he was fiercely and irrevocably in love with her.Harmony & Co (18+) Advent Fest: Day 2





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

‘Hermione’s like my sister.’

That’s what he’d been telling everyone since before he could remember, really. It was his mantra any time the press or a girlfriend or a well-meaning associate asked about his somewhat unconventional relationship with Hermione Granger.

‘We have a sibling relationship.’

He’d known she was pretty, in a natural, unburdened way that sort of snuck up on a man. She was fierce and loyal and wonderful and, perhaps most importantly, she had always stood by him. Everyone else, at one point in time or another, had abandoned him but not her. Not Hermione.

‘She’s my sister in everything but blood.’

That’s what he’d been telling anyone who had asked him all through school and for all 8 years after the war. He’d believed it when he said it, too. 

How unfortunate for Harry, then, that he now realized he was fiercely and irrevocably in love with her.

\---

“Tell me, Mr. Potter. How are things since our last session?”

The war had affected everyone differently and really, that made sense. Everyone had experienced different things, after all, and they had responded to that.

Ron, for example, had been looking to set his own roots down. Maybe it was because of his big family and the way he had watched it be poked and chipped at or maybe that had simply always been his dream, but the one thing Ron really wanted after the war was a home; one complete with a wife and a few kids, as soon as he could get it.

That was likely one reason his relationship with Hermione hadn’t panned out. One of many, honestly.

Ron had married Susan Bones not a year after Voldemort fell. They had three children now who called him ‘Uncle Harry’ and tried to climb his legs every time he visited. His godson, the oldest child who was called Fred Jr, tried to charm Harry out of knuts and sickles with admirable consistency and wild success. Ron and Susan were, surprisingly, blissfully happy.

His own relationship with Ginny had ended as well, though it had really never picked back up after the war. It seemed that while Harry was off being a ‘hero’ elsewhere, Neville Longbottom was being the hero she and the other students at Hogwarts needed and it was something she was unable to forget. In what Harry might have said was an unlikely romance, she fell in love with Neville that year of Carrows and pain potions and camping in the Room of Requirement. While she confided only in him and Hermione and then tried diligently to forget it, she never quite fell out again. Neville and Ginny started dating five years back, marrying after another two, and though Harry had thought it might hurt, it really hadn’t.

He realized after everything that maybe Ginny had just been a way to get the Weasleys officially, for good, but it turned out he could have them whether he married into the family or not. It wasn’t a realization he was proud of, but when he really thought of it: he had been 17 years old with a psychopath out to kill him and world to save. He could forgive himself that folly.

As for Hermione, well...

Hermione broke. Spectacularly, beautifully almost; all of the little pieces of herself she’d been holding together since the torture and the year on the run tore into a storm of fury and self-destruction that Harry hoped he would never have the horror nor the privilege of witnessing ever again. 

He supposed she did it quieter than most, but what Hermione Granger could hide from Harry Potter was exactly nothing, not if he was looking, and he was most certainly looking. She studied independently and received every NEWT she tried for, beginning work as a free-lance advisor of sorts for charms, potions, and other magics and she did rather well for a while. From an outsider's perspective, she was fine.

Harry, however, had begun muggle therapy immediately following the war with the father of a half-blood second year. He recognized the signs of her struggle as the same, and yet so very different from his, manifestation of PTSD symptoms.

He watched the dark circles underneath her eyes darken and deepen, glamour spells failing in the wake of exhaustion.

He watched her eat less and less at Sunday dinners at the Burrow and mid-week lunches with just the two of them.

He watched her show up to said dinners and lunches less and less frequently too.

6 months passed in that manner until finally, after a week of no dinners, no lunches, a blocked floo, and no return owls, Harry arrived outside her flat. He spent 5 hours dismantling her (thankfully familiar) wards and let himself into her entryway without permission. He found a dirty apartment with discarded books and Daily Prophets littered over most of the floor space and a highly disheveled Hermione sitting in the corner of her bedroom with her wand poised to strike.

“What are you doing, Mione?” he had asked her slowly from the doorway, noting how his old Quidditch Jersey she was wearing hung off shoulders that were far thinner than they ever should have seen. Far thinner than he’d ever seen them, actually, including the year before when they had literally been starving to death.

She had met his eyes with terrified ones. “Fighting monsters,” she’d whispered with just a touch of wryness, flinching when he took slow, steady steps into the room and settled on the ground next to her.

He could remember, even now, pulling his own wand and pressing his arm against hers. “Can I help?” he’d asked, glancing at her wild hair and wilder eyes out of the corner of his own gaze.

Hermione had hesitated, but eventually she’d swallowed and nodded tentatively. “Yes,” she’d murmured, slowly lowering her head so that it rested on his shoulder, though her eyes had become no less alert for the concession. “Okay, Harry.”

The flashback had ended eventually and after a lot of encouragement and more than a little arguing, Harry had found her a magic friendly therapist, though a different one from his own. Her diagnosis of PTSD was the same as his, although the eating disorder and obsessive tendencies were an addition. Something inside his heart reminded him that this woman had always stood by him, always taken care of him, and now it was his turn. 

And it had been, for a year or so after, when she was sick and working through things and living in nightmares that didn’t seem to end when the day came. He still took care of her after she got better, after she went back to work and started smiling again, lighting up rooms with the wide grin and the belly laugh he didn’t even know he’d missed until suddenly it was back. It felt as if a part of his soul he hadn’t noticed was missing was finally whole again.

“Tell me, Mr. Potter. How are things since our last session?”

No one was ever all healed after the war; they’d carry those scars to the grave. But she was mostly better, and Harry was mostly better, and after 15 years of knowing her, he was now in love with his best friend.

“Harry?”

He blinked, looking at his therapist, Dr. Devons, as he sat in the same room he’d been coming to every week for the past eight years.

“Sorry,” Harry told him, pushing his glasses up his nose and biting back a small sigh. “Everything’s good, honestly. Same as last time.”

Dr. Devons tilted his head, eying Harry through bright blue eyes that he often found a little unnerving. “You don’t seem good,” Devons pointed out. “If anything, you seem anxious and upset about something.”

Harry did sigh then. “No, it’s just-”

He cut off, trying to figure out a way to explain what he was feeling. Emotions were still difficult for him, not necessarily to feel, but certainly to actually put into words.

“It’s Hermione,” Harry finally said, rubbing his hands along his cheeks briskly before collapsing back onto the couch. “Or rather, the way I’ve been thinking about her lately. At first, I was afraid to rock the boat or risk what we have, but then I remembered who we are. It-”

His mouth twitched slightly as a fond look came over his face. “There is no risk,” he told Dr. Devons. “Even if she didn’t feel the same way or we tried and it didn’t work out romantically, we’d still be us. We’d still be Harry and Hermione.”

“And yet...” Devons prompted, signaling with his hand for Harry to go on.

“And yet, I’m not sure how to bring it up,” Harry answered with a defeated look at his shoes. “I’m not sure how to even begin to change how we are. I suppose I could just be obvious about it and just spring it on her but I... well, I- I suppose I want to do something special...”

“Special?”

“Yeah. She’s...” He began, trailing off a bit helplessly as he tried to explain. “Well, SHE’S special, you know? And I want her to know that this isn’t just a spur of the moment or a just-give-it-a-go thing. This is real and important. I really, really want to try with her.”

“Well,” Dr. Devons said slowly, leaning back in his chair as he considered what Harry said. “It sounds like you want to do something big, some sort of grand statement. Is that correct?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry allowed, biting the corner of his mouth as he considered. “But, you know, quiet. Just between the two of us.”

“Big yet quiet?” Devons asked with a quick look of confusion.

“What I mean is, big for her,” Harry explained quickly. “Hermione wouldn’t appreciate it if I did something that drew a lot of attention or anything, but I want to do something that will be important to her personally, if you follow me.”

Dr. Devons paused and cleared his throat before he made a sound of understanding. “Well, Harry, Christmas is coming up,” he stated evenly, watching Harry perk up a bit with interest. “A special and poignant gift could be just the ticket.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered a bit distractedly. “That’s rather brilliant, actually. Christmas.”


	2. Chapter 2

December 24th was cold but dry as Harry Potter apparated outside the Burrow. Tradition dictated that the entire Weasley family come together to stay at the family homestead for Christmas Eve as well as Christmas night before returning to their own homes after Boxing Day. Charlie and Bill, who were outside smoking while leaning against the stone fence, waved at him in greeting as he made his way inside. He raised a hand back before shuffling up the last few steps with his pockets weighed down with shrunken Christmas gifts, reaching for the door. 

Before he could get a finger on the handle, it swung open seemingly of its own accord and Harry found himself flat on his back beneath a small horde of children. 

“Uncle Harry!” Chorused approximately six small voices. He was still attempting to pull a little breath back into his lungs from where a wayward elbow had come into rough contact with his solar plexus when the sound of a throaty, happy laugh knocked the breath out of him all over again. 

He turned his head to see Hermione standing in the doorway, eyes alight with humor as she giggled at his distress. He knew his face probably split into a goofy grin at the sight of her, but it was hard to care when she was standing there with her hair piled up on her head haphazardly, not a speck of make-up in sight, and swallowed up in his own Weasley sweater from two or three years back. 

She’d never received one of her own, an oversight on Mrs. Weasley’s part that so obviously pained her and aggravated Harry himself to no end. Molly was, perhaps, still sore that Hermione had not married into the family and become her daughter in law. But Harry’s name also began with a ‘H,’ and so he tried to give his own jumper to her whenever he got a new one. He liked to think she loved them so because they had once been his, but he suspected it was more because it made her feel included, even if it was all pretend. 

Regardless, seeing his clothes on her had been giving him a sense of masculine, caveman pride for a year now; a fact he had no intention of ever sharing with the witch. She was far too adept at hexes. 

“Let Uncle Harry come in this instant, or all of the many presents I’m sure he has squirrelled away just might come to you in pieces,” Hermione teased, laughing again as the children all scrambled off of him and back into the house. Amelia, Ron’s youngest and Hermione’s goddaughter, lifted her arms in a plea to be picked up instead of returning with the other children. She settled the child onto her hip with an indulgent smile before pulling her warm eyes back to him. 

Harry pushed himself to his feet, brushing a bit of dirt off his coat as he grinned at the pair of them. Hermione looked up at him, the top of her curly head reaching only to his chin, as she shifted the girl around a bit. It had taken Ron and Hermione quite a bit to get back to the friendship that they once had, which was why Harry’s godchild was the oldest while Hermione’s own godparenthood was much more recent. 

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” she murmured with a smile, stepping towards him and planting a soft kiss to his cheek before linking her fingers with his and dragging him inside. 

He felt his cheeks flame red under her attention, but he reasoned it likely would be blamed on the cold. Harry didn’t say a word about it, but he hoped very much this would be a very happy Christmas indeed. 

That night, everyone retired to their individual bedrooms in the Burrow. Space was at a premium, so while each sibling and their family was sent to their childhood rooms, Harry and Hermione were given Percy’s old room to share. Percy, of course, was far too busy to take a whole three days off and therefore only came for Christmas morning. While Mrs. Weasley was not one to ever allow unmarried men and women to occupy the same room at night, she had made an exception for Harry and Hermione, as everyone knew they were siblings in all but blood anyway. 

Except they weren’t. Hermione was CERTAINLY not his sister and while his feelings had just begun to manifest last year, this year was infinitely more complicated. 

He was already propped up in the full-sized bed against the headboard when Hermione returned from the bathroom, rubbing her hands together to smear in a delicious smelling vanilla lotion. Her flannel nightgown, covering her from neck to ankle, was certainly not made in any way to tempt a man and yet... 

“Tired?” she asked him, pulling back the side of the comforter they were set to share and sliding into the bed beside him. 

“A bit,” he answered a tad hoarsely, mind barely functioning around fantasies of her settling into a bed with him like this every night, for the rest of his life, and maybe even into the next one. 

She slid down and settled her head on her pillow, looking at him as he pulled off his glasses and then mirrored her position. She reached out and ran an absentminded hand through his unruly hair, smiling when the raven locks sprung back out of place immediately. 

“We should get some sleep,” Hermione told him softly, pulling her fingers back much to his chagrin and settling both her hands beneath her cheek like a child. “The kids will be up quite early and you know how cranky Molly will be with me if I’m not up with the women to cook a breakfast feast for all of you hard-working men.” 

Harry snorted. “We both know you shouldn’t be anywhere near the kitchen unless burnt toast and a truly excellent cup of tea are the plan.” 

She smacked his arm and let out a very un-Hermione like giggle. “I’ll have you know I mastered the art of not overcooking bread ages ago. Last Tuesday, at the latest.” 

He chuckled along with her, trying to scoot just a bit closer to her without alerting her to his intentions. “Alright then,” Harry conceded, waving his wand carelessly behind him to extinguish the lights. “Let’s sleep.” 

Hermione grabbed his hand and squeezed it lightly before rolling onto her other side and burrowing under the covers. “G’Night Harry,” she said quietly. 

“Goodnight, Mione,” he answered, closing another inch of space while using the excuse of settling on the bed. 

A half hour passed, but Hermione’s breath never evened out into the deep rhythm of someone sleeping. She rolled and resettled, until finally seeming to give up and slowly creeping backwards towards him. When she was an inch or so from his body, Harry decided to take a chance and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into his chest just as he had done when they were on the run and freezing cold at night. 

She gasped quietly, surprised for just a moment, before melting into his body in the most delicious of ways and tentatively setting her hand over his arm. 

“Harry,” she whispered. 

“Yeah?” He asked hoarsely, attempting to keep the longing and desire out of his voice and likely failing miserably. Having her pressed so close to him was causing his arousal to soar, and he was having a very hard time keeping his body from betraying him. 

“Will you tell me a bedtime story?” 

Harry buried his smile on her hair. It was another thing they had sometimes done on those long nights in the tent when one or the other could not find their way to rest; they would tell muggle fairy tales in an attempt to soothe one another and find a measure of peace. 

He tightened his arm around her ever so slightly and allowed his body to encircle her more completely. 

“Once upon a time...” 

\--- 

Christmas morning saw the entire Weasley clan, along with Hermione and Harry, settled in the relatively small living room with tidy piles of gifts waiting to be opened. Breakfast was finished and the dishes were busy washing themselves as small children shrieked in excitement, tearing through gift wrap and bows as if they were nothing more solid than smoke. 

There were sweaters, followed by a smattering of “Thank you, Grandma” and books, followed by “Thank you, Aunt Mione,” as well as assorted other toys and trinkets ranging from a single training broom to twin pygmy puffs. After the children had destroyed the room and had temporarily discarded presents scattered about, the adults opened their own significantly smaller piles, offering their own thanks. 

Harry received his usual Weasley jumper from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, new Quidditch gloves from Ron, a wand holster from Hermione that was charmed to camouflage itself (similar to a chameleon) to whatever you happened to be wearing at the time, and assorted other trinkets from all of the Weasleys. His gift to Hermione, a delicate gold bookmark with a non-sensical pattern inscribed on the front, had been received with a soft look and a squeeze to his bicep. 

They were cleaning up the assorted rubbish from the gift exchange when the wards chimed, announcing a visitor. Suspecting what it was, Harry fought to keep his face impassive and said nothing as Mrs. Weasley wandered towards the front door with a bewildered expression. 

“Delivery for Hermione Granger!” a voice came from just outside the door, prompting Mrs. Weasley to call a bemused Hermione to the front of the house. 

He followed feigning mild interest, turning the corner to reveal a middle-aged wizard, dressed in something that appeared to be a cross between a muggle elf and a reindeer, transfigured antlers and all. Hermione approached the wizard with cautious steps, clearing her throat as he came to stand in front of her. 

“Are you Hermione Granger?” he asked excitedly, though that seemed a silly question since everyone in England likely STILL knew what she looked like. His question, however, seemed wholly genuine as he fidgeted, lightly bouncing from foot to foot. 

“I am,” she answered cautiously, jumping backwards a bit when he suddenly conjured a pitch pipe and blew loudly into the contraption to presumably find a note. The strangely dressed wizard set his feet, with one slightly behind the other, and puffed out his chest. 

He opened his mouth and sang. 

“On the first day of Christmas   
my true love sent to me...” 

With a loud crack, the wizard disappeared in a flurry of green and red confetti, causing Hermione to sputter and wave her hand in an attempt to clear it. When finally the confetti settled, she squinted and reached down to pick up the book left behind in his wake. 

“What is it?” Ginny asked from her spot with the rest of the family where they had crowded around the entryway to watch the show. 

“It’s ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ by Jann Brett,” Hermione answered curiously, turning the book over and looking for some sort of tag or note. Finding none, her eyebrows furrowed as her fingers absentmindedly stroked the spine. 

“Oy,” Ron grumbled, picking up his youngest daughter as she squirmed against his leg. “Whose it from then?” 

“I’ve no idea,” Hermione said absentmindedly. 

Harry said nothing. 

\--- 

On Boxing Day, just after two, the wards chimed again. It was a different wizard this time, dressed in the same ‘uniform,’ who once again announced he had a “Delivery for Hermione Granger!” 

“Who are you?” Hermione demanded, not answering the inquiry of whether she was, in fact, the woman he sought. 

“I, my dearest lady, am Jared of ‘Harold’s Heralds’ with a singing telegram for the one and only Hermione Granger,” he told her cheerfully. “Who is you. I recognized you, ‘course. We’s just supposed to ask.” 

Out came the pitch pipe without further ado. 

“On the second day of Christmas   
my true love sent to me:   
Two Turtle Doves,   
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.” 

When the confetti cleared, a copy of “Tanya, The Turtle Dove” by Rebecca Anders, Anne Marie Pajot, Antoinette Barrère, and L'Enc Matte waited in puddle of red and green. 

“What is it this time?” Bill asked. 

Hermione, who had flipped the book to the back cover, answered distractedly. “It’s a children’s book about the care of Turtle Doves, told through the perspective of the owners of a fictional Turtle Dove named Tanya. It was published in 1977.” 

She frowned, looking up to fix her gaze on Harry was eyeing her carefully. “Why is someone is sending me books?” 

He pulled her to the side of the room where no one in particular would hear them as they talked, waiting until everyone took the hint and dispersed before speaking. 

“Seems like you have an admirer, Mione,” he answered quietly, stepping closer to take the book and look at one of the works he had selected to send her over the Twelve days of Christmas. “Someone who wanted to tell you they care for you in a way you might enjoy and understand.” 

She swallowed heavily and her cheeks flushed while she glanced back down at the book in his Quidditch calloused hands. 

“Most men would have opted for flowers or jewelry,” Hermione said slowly, glancing at him a bit nervously through her lashes. “Only someone who knew me fairly well would really bother with such an endeavor.” 

Harry said nothing, handing the book back to her with a small grin. He turned to walk away but paused as she called after him. 

“I wonder why he didn’t tell me who he was with the first book,” Hermione said, watching him carefully as if he had given her a reason to suspect him. Maybe he had; he was never any good at hiding anything from her. 

“I’m sure there’s a reason,” he answered ambiguously, noticing the way her eyes narrowed when his words gave away nothing. “Give it some time and see what happens.” 

He turned away once more and fought not to laugh when he heard her let out an aggravated huff behind him. She suspected him, but she wasn’t sure enough to accuse him. If Harry knew her, and he definitely did, it would likely drive her to distraction before the twelve days were over. 


	3. Chapter 3

The days passed quietly, but Harry was beyond nervous about his plan. He had used some of his often compiled but never used vacation time to take off work until mid-January, worried that he would in no way be able to concentrate, and he suspected this had been a wise decision based on how jumpy and rattled he was. He wasn’t much a bookworm himself, but he had been determined to fulfill the terms of all Twelve Days of Christmas to the best of his ability and he wasn’t about to shirk on the effort it would take to do it right. He had haunted bookstores and implored the aide of many a muggle book keeper to complete his collection of gifts, as he didn’t trust a wizard not to sell his intentions to the press. Harry hoped that at the end, all the work would show Hermione in a small way how much he loved and cared for her and maybe, just maybe, she’d give them a chance as more than best friends. 

The book for the third day had been a bit difficult to decide on, with a need for French hens and all, and he had eventually settled on a French magazine on poultry called “Hens Magazine” Volume 16, published in 1980. 

The fourth day called for mockingbirds, a task easily fulfilled by the popular muggle novel, “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee.

The fifth day was rings, which was also fairly easy, though he did cheat a bit by sending Hermione not one book, but rather all three of “The Lord of the Rings Trilogy” by J.R.R. Tolkien. 

For the sixth day, he found a rather obscure poem anthology in a used bookstore called “With the Wild Geese” by Emily Lawless from 1902. It was an Irish poetry compilation about the so called ‘Wild Geese,’ exiles who migrated to the continent before and after the Battle of Augrhim in 1691. He knew it would appeal to Hermione’s romantic side as well as her fierce sense of social justice.

“Swan Song” by John Galsworthy, published in 1928, was used for the seventh day. He cheated again and bought her the whole set, as it was 6th in a series of larger works which “chronicled the ebbing social power of the commercial upper-middle class Forsyte family between 1886 and 1920,” according the shop owner.

“The Pandit and the Milkmaid” by Gayatri Madan Dutt was a book Harry actually already owned, a visual novel about the hypocrisy and greed of the rich and famous. It was a social commentary and satire, something both he and Hermione enjoyed and he thought after the series of serious choices he’d given her, it’d be good to throw in a laugh.

The choice for the ninth day was a bit strange. “Elegia di Madonna Fiammetta, or The Elegy of Lady Fiammetta” by Giovanni Boccaccio was written in 1343. In it, a fictional Lady Fiammetta recalled her love affair with a man named Panfilo, who ultimately left her for another lover he was entertaining at the same time. The book keeper had raved about it as a classic and a tale of woe so complete it would make even the hardest of hearts weep. It was written as a warning to other women, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure if Hermione would find the whole thing hilarious or set it on fire.

On the tenth day, “The Lord of the Flies” by William Golding was delivered, followed by “The Pied Piper of Hamelin and Other Stories” by Robert Browning on the eleventh day.

Finally, the Twelfth Day of Christmas, January 5th, rolled around. The night before, Harry tossed and turned and didn’t get a wink of sleep. He had owled that he was ill to avoid Sunday dinner and hadn’t seen Hermione once since Christmas. He hadn’t asked her to lunch, nor she him, and he wasn’t entirely sure if her silence was a good thing or not.

He was finishing a quiet tea around one o’clock in the afternoon when he received the confirmation via owl that the final book had been delivered. The last day was “Drummer Boy: Marching to the Civil War” by Ann Warren Turner and its arrival heralded the time that Harry had planned to floo to Hermione’s flat and finish this thing, one way or another.

Now that his moment had come, he found that facing the taunts of a horcrux sounded like a much less daunting proposition.

Still, he wasn’t a Gryffindor and the unwilling Man-Who-Lived for nothing and if he was going to be commended for his bravery, it might as well count for something. Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry abandoned his tea on the table and marched to the floo, shouting out the name before he found himself violently pitched forward onto a soft, shag rug.

Hermione was curled up in an arm chair in her sitting room where the floo connected, reading her latest book in an oversized, tan jumper and leggings. Her hair was loose and wild around her shoulders and a cup of what smelled like hot chocolate sat at her elbow, the robin’s egg blue mug a shade lighter than the fuzzy socks that adorned her dainty feet.

Everything about her was beautiful comfort and home and as he stood, Harry had the distinct impression that his tongue had escaped down his throat.

“Harry,” she greeted him with a smile, setting aside her book and standing up from her chair. She did not, he noted, seem the least bit surprised to see him, but perhaps that was simply because they were always popping round one another’s homes and had nothing to do with her knowing he was her admirer.

He opened his mouth to confess, tried to make the words he had planned to say spill out, and then he closed it again. Hermione tilted her head, looking at him with a mix of confusion and amusement, so he tried again. 

He meant to tell her that he had sent the books; that he did it because he loved her so much it made his chest ache. And he wanted to be with her, only her, now and forever if she’d only give him just the slightest, teeniest chance to make her happy-

But nothing came out. He cleared his throat and looked at the floor.

Hermione stepped towards him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek and bringing his eyes up to meet hers. He fell into twin pools of chocolate and drowned, allowing her touch to soothe his nerves and calm his frazzled mind. So much for bravery.

“Harry, are you alright?” she asked, concerned now after his amazing performance of a person struck with a langlock.

Harry nodded, keeping eye contact with her as he raised his wand slightly off to the side. “Accio Christmas Bookmark,” he said hoarsely, not even watching as the little golden rectangle dislodged itself from somewhere imbedded between thin pages and flew into his hand.

Hermione clucked her tongue. 

“You’ll have lost my spot, you know,” She scolded lightly, looking more confused by the minute but obviously choosing not to question him.

“Finite Incantatum,” He murmured, feeling the bookmark shift beneath his fingers as she turned her attention to his hand. He handed her back the gift, watching her eyes widen and fill with tears as she ran a single finger down the newly revealed design in the gold.

She took a small step back, clutching her bookmark with both hands as she stared at it hard, emotions flashing across her face so quickly that Harry failed to recognize them. Her stepping away from him, even just a little, caused panic to swell in his belly and this time when he opened his mouth, words that he hadn’t planned or thought through came tumbling out.

“It’s the first day of Christmas,” he said, gesturing towards the thing in her hands as he leaned down to try to catch her eye and failed. “The real design is there now, a Partridge in a Pear Tree. I arranged everything with ‘Harold’s Heralds’ -which, incidentally, I apologize for; they were the only really ‘festive’ delivery option, but anyway- and found the books to send to you because I thought maybe if I did it right... you know?”

She still wasn’t saying anything and she was still staring at the bookmark. His panic increased.

“I, erm, well, you love books. I suppose it’s not as original as it could have been,” Harry continued, hands clenching and unclenching as he babbled into the silence. “I know you hate how everyone just assumes you want nothing but books. But- I wanted to do something big but quiet and that seems like it wouldn’t go together. Um, what I mean to say... there are only so many ways to tell the girl you’ve called sister for forever that you’ve actually been in love with her for a year and-”

“Three years,” Hermione interrupted, finally looking up at him with teary eyes before immediately tearing them away again.

Harry blinked. “Erm... what?”

“You said you’ve been in love with me for a year,” she answered slowly, the words sounding as if they were torn from her throat as she moved away to set the book mark on the end table next to her drink. She turned back to where he stood frozen and bemused in the middle of the room. “I’ve been in love with you for three.”

His heart stuttered and stalled in his chest before beginning to beat again, only this time so frantically that it seemed determined to pound right out of his chest.

“Wait, really?” he said, brain slowly coming back online as she moved back towards him and looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Yes,” she answered simply, stopping a small distance away from him and yanking nervously on the hem of her jumper. She looked skittish, like she might bolt from him if he made any sudden movements and he recognized that she was fighting the reflex to run from anything new. New was scary after all that they had seen, especially for her, and it took a lot for her not to shut him down and take off in the other direction out of misplaced and uncontrollable fear.

Harry cleared his throat and willed himself to stay calm and steady. He had to be an anchor and set aside his own anxiety so she had something solid to hold onto. Otherwise, this small and yet fiercely important moment could send her reeling and he could lose the chance to have her before they even started. 

“Were you going to tell me?” he asked, voice carefully blanked to not be accusing in anyway.

Hermione kept her eyes on the ground in front of her and shook her head, biting her lip viciously as she shifted on her feet.

“Why not?” he asked softly, taking a slow and clear step towards her, closing the distance. She tensed slightly before relaxing again, resuming her fidgeting.

“Why would I?” Hermione said with a slightly bitter undertone. “I was your sister, remember? You still called me that. OF COURSE you didn’t see me as a woman, as a potential partner. It made sense, anyway. I couldn’t risk losing you even if I only got to keep you as less than I wanted.”

His careful steps led him to stand directly in front of her and with gentle hands and a confidence he didn’t actually feel, he cupped her cheeks and brought her eyes up to meet his. Her skin was so soft beneath his fingertips and she smelled like that vanilla lotion she always used, causing his mind to fog over ever so slightly as small tendrils of arousal curled in his belly.

“And now?” Harry asked, letting one of his hands drop to cup her jawline in a motion he had thought about more than once but never actually allowed himself to indulge in. “Is it still too much of a risk now?”

He felt her swallow hard against the side of his palm as her pupils dilated a bit and in a moment of sheer incredulous joy, he realized that she was affected by his presence too.

“I don’t know, Harry,” she admitted in a small voice. “I CAN’T lose you.”

“Don’t do that,” he told her, letting his other hand move backwards and burying it in the hair at the base of her neck. She gasped quietly and he felt more of his blood flow southward. “Don’t let that big brain of yours overthink this or talk you out of something good. I love you, Mione. You love me. We’ve been every, single thing to each other EXCEPT this. You won’t lose me, not ever. But this...”

Harry brought their foreheads together, letting their breath mingle as his eyes slid shut. “This feels right” he continued, rubbing his nose against hers as he fought against the impulse to just give in and kiss her already. “This feels like where we’ve always been headed. This feels like forever.”

He pulled back a few inches and stared into her eyes once more, willing her to see the sincerity and honesty in his. She was scared, he knew that. The only way he’d get her to give way is by being raw and vulnerable, no matter how uncomfortable it was to do so. She was the only one he could ever be this weak in front of anyway.

“To me, that’s worth anything," He told her. "You- the chance to HAVE you, really have you, is worth anything."


	4. Chapter 4

A small sob escaped her before suddenly, Hermione's lips were pressed against his. It was just like her, really, to overthink and equivocate, and then commit to her decision once it was made without any reservation. She was desperate, kissing him as if he was the air she needed to survive and she’d been suffocating for far too long. A little kitten-like lick to his bottom lip had him moaning into her mouth and pulling her up against him hard. He returned her fervor with his own and when their tongues met, he felt as if fireworks had exploded in his brain.

This -THIS- was the moment, he thought wildly as he clenched her curls between his fingers. This was the moment when everything changed, when everything he’d yearned for finally came together. This was the moment they found their niche. This was when he finally got his girl.

Hermione was making these noises as he licked at the roof of her mouth, these insanity inducing noises that started in the back of her throat, and Harry considered for a moment that he could spend the rest of his life listening to only those sounds and be a very content man.

He pulled back slightly, pressing kisses along the ridge of her cheekbone and up to her temple, reveling in his ability to hold her to him exactly as he’d dreamed of doing. “Does this mean I’m worth the risk too, Mione?” He asked, moving backwards a half step so he could see her eyes when she answered.

“Yes,” she stated firmly, all hesitation gone from her voice as she looked up at him with a wicked little grin that set his stomach on fire. She turned him and pushed, forcing him backwards until his knees hit the armchair and he landed in the seat with a surprised whoosh of expelled air. “Now, talking time is over.”

His eyes widened as she climbed in top of him, hips nestled against his as the space between her legs cradled his cock. He groaned and threw his head back involuntarily when she rolled her hips, leaning forward to kiss at his exposed neck as he fruitlessly and helplessly tried to keep from thrusting upwards.

“Merlin, Mione,” Harry gasped out, forcing his hands to her thighs in a pitiful and only halfhearted attempt to still her. “We have time, we-”

His voice cut off as she ground down on him, forcing something from his mouth that sounded embarrassingly like a whimper.

“Harry James Potter,” she hissed in that annoyed voice of hers, the one she used when he hadn’t done his homework or he was late to lunch. A voice he’d never thought of as sexy in the slightest but now...

“I’ve been wanting you for three bloody years!” she continued harshly, ignorant to the way her bossiness was currently morphing into a weird fetish Harry had never known he had. “You said we are going to always have each other, you said I didn’t need to worry, so that’s that. If we’re together, and you just bloody well said we are, then we may have time but we have absolutely no reason what-so-ever to wait!”

He couldn’t fault her logic, not when she was draped across his lap and her eyes were sparking wildly and her hips were stuttering ever so slightly in a delicious tease right over where he needed her most.

“Tell me how I’m wrong,” Hermione finished with a challenge, burying her fingers into his hair and pulling his head backwards ever so slightly until he was forced to look at her. He stifled a groan and shook his head, the movement pulling his hair more and ramping up his already ridiculously high arousal.

“You’re never wrong, Mione,” he answered, encouraging her hips to roll again and sighing with relief when she tentatively allowed it. She returned her attention to his throat and it was glorious. “I just didn’t -Merlin, that feels- I... I didn’t want you to feel pressured. But-”

He whined deep in his throat when she bit down on his pulse point, head still firmly held in place by his hair as she rubbed herself back and forth along his painfully hardened length.

“But if you want me,” he managed to force out of his mouth, his voice coming out graveled and husky in his state. “I’m yours for the taking.”

Hermione pulled back from his neck and smiled at him, leaning in to kiss him enthusiastically before she bit down on his lip. 

“Are you now?” she asked coyly, letting her free hand wander down his clothed chest until she finally palmed him through his trousers. Harry inhaled sharply at her touch, feeling his eyes roll back slightly. “Is this mine for the taking as well?”

He forced his hazy eyes to meet hers, grinning at her kiss reddened lips and lust filled eyes. “Didn’t you know by now, Mione?” he said softly, letting his eyes trace the contours of her face. “Everything I have is yours to take or leave.”

Hermione’s eyes softened and filled before she leaned in to offer him another, sweet kiss. He reveled in the feel of her over him, her lips against his, her hand teasing at his cock. She let go of his hair to flick her wrist and her wand flew into her palm. A softly muttered charm later found Harry’s clothes banished from his body and folded on the table by the floo.

When suddenly her bare palm was against his need, his hips bucked violently and involuntarily while a desperate, unmanly whimper was pulled from his lungs. She smirked at him before sliding down his front and onto her knees in front of him, kneeling between his spread legs at the foot of the armchair. 

The dynamics were intoxicating, Harry thought vaguely. Her fully clothed and him naked and vulnerable, while at the same time he was seated comfortably and she was kneeling before him. He didn’t have a lot of time to consider it as she leaned forward and LICKED and his brain stalled completely at the decadent feel of her tongue on the head of him.

He reached out his fingers to thread through her hair but she pushed his arms back, forcing him to grip the armchair desperately as she grinned at him. “Keep your hands there, or I stop,” she warned, forcing a flinch from him at the thought of her leaving him so unfulfilled. “Keep your hips as still as you can, too.”

It was heaven and hell combined, he decided distantly, as she suckled so softly on his head. Hermione released him and lapped at his entire length with long, lazy licks that felt so incredibly good and yet so unsatisfying that he seriously considered begging, though whether he’d beg her to stop or go on forever was unclear. When she took him fully into her mouth, his knuckles cracked under the pressure of his grip and his hips started to stutter up before he forcibly stilled them. She glanced up at him, seeming to catch his involuntary movement, and he cried out embarrassingly loud when she hummed her approval.

Still, it had been a long time since he’d been with anyone and the feel of her hot, wet mouth was going to be enough to undo him even if she kept it light and torturous. 

“Mione,” he told her hoarsely, keeping still through the use of willpower that was hanging on by an absolute thread. “Your mouth, bloody hell, it’s too good... if you don’t give me a minute, I’m not... Oh my God, I won’t be able to stop-”

Hermione’s eyes flashed up meet his and she reached up to stroke the knuckles of his hands encouragingly. She paused to untangle his fingers before gently bringing his hands to rest on her head. She smiled around his girth and went back to work, but this time, gone were the teasing touches and light torture. Now, her head bobbed quickly as she ran her tongue along vein that ran up the underside of his cock, sucking hard with hollowed cheeks.

His mouth opened in a silent moan as his back arched, fingers clenching helplessly in her curls as his hands followed the movements of her head but never guided it. When she went down impossibly low on him, allowing his head to breach her throat and she swallowed, Harry curled around the upper half of her body in his lap and cried out. He swelled and pulsed in her mouth, feeling the clench of her throat that both prolonged and intensified his orgasm until he was spent completely and she was licking lightly at his softening member. 

“Mione,” he moaned, wrenching her back up into his lap and kissing her fiercely. She seemed to revel in plunging into his mouth, allowing him to taste his seed on her tongue and he was surprised to find how entrancing that was. He pulled her wand out of the holster where she had re-secured it and used the same spell to rid her of her clothes that she had used on him. He found himself with a lap full of nude, writhing witch and he wasted no time in settling her to straddling his legs like before and bringing his thumbs slowly up the insides of her thighs to her apex.

Unlike what she had done to him, Harry did not tease her. His fingers drug through slick flesh as he circled two around her entrance, easing them inside of her the instant she bucked her hips towards him. Hermione’s mouth opened in a quiet pant of pleasure as she braced herself on his shoulder with one hand, the other clenching at the wrist that was currently thrusting his fingers inside of her.

She moaned as she rolled her hips to meet him, moving the hand from his shoulder to the back of his head so she could pull his lips towards a perky, dusky nipple. Without hesitation, Harry obeyed her silent command, suckling deeply as he rubbed his fingers along her internal walls, assaulting the most sensitive parts of her mercilessly as she keened atop him in pleasure. 

He laved her other nipple with equal attention, gasping slightly when the hand that hand been forcing his wrist to move harder and deeper within her instead grasped his quickly reawakening length. She stroked along him as she rode his fingers. His cock, still sensitive from his orgasm, shot pleasure slightly diluted with discomfort up his spine as he bit down on the nub in his mouth, worrying her nipple between his teeth until she pulled his hair hard in rebuke.

Finally, she lifted off his fingers and stilled her stroking, looking Harry in the eyes as she released his hair to clutch at the hand that was dripping with her pleasure. She manipulated it up to his mouth and he opened his lips without question, sucking her juices from his fingers as she looked on approvingly.

He released his fingers with a pop and grinned at her. “You’re bossy,” he stated with a teasing lilt to his voice, stroking along the skin of her cheek so she’d know it wasn’t a criticism.

Hermione flushed anyway, but lifted her chin a bit defiantly and smiled back. “You don’t seem to mind,” she pointed out, glancing pointedly at where his cock jutted proudly out between them.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t mind,” he admitted. “It seems I may actually like it.”

She laughed. “Good. Then you won’t mind that I’m about to ride you until I come,” she told him, taking his chin between her fingers and forcing a mock stern face, “AT LEAST two times and then, if you have been very, very good, I’ll let you come again too.”

Harry chuckled, but his voice quickly died as she wrapped her hand around his shaft and slid down into him, enveloping him in tight, wet heat that made him very glad he’d already spent himself once if he was expected to endure her clenching around him multiple times without losing his mind.

He managed it, but barely.

\---

The next Christmas Eve, Harry and Hermione slept in Percy’s room together the same way they had been doing for all the years before. This time, no one mistook Hermione Granger-Potter as his sister and although Mrs. Weasley had been somewhat disapproving of how quickly the pair of them had moved with their courtship, there was nothing she could say about a married couple sharing a room together. 

Christmas passed in the usual way, with a flurry of trinkets, jumpers, and books. Strangely, Hermione didn’t get him anything, but Harry wasn’t especially bothered by it. He had everything he needed right there next to him on the Weasley’s threadbare couch, her head tucked under his chin as they watched the many children roll about on the carpet. 

They were cleaning up the wrapping paper when the wards chimed. Mrs. Weasley looked at him suspiciously but Harry just shrugged. This time, at least, it wasn’t him.

The family moved towards the door as a group, headed by Mrs. Weasley who slowly opened the door up before letting out a put upon sigh. 

“Delivery for Harry Potter!” came a voice from just outside the door. A man stepped into the entryway as Mrs. Weasley stepped aside to allow him entrance. In a moment of deja vu, the same wizard from the year previous, still dressed like a cross between a muggle elf and a reindeer, smiled happily at the crowd around him.

The wizard spotted him and took a step towards him while Harry glanced at his red-faced, snickering wife. She was standing beside him, clearly attempting to hold in her mirth, while Harry flushed under the attention. 

Unsure whether to settle on annoyance or amusement, Harry turned his attention back to the man in front of him. “I’m Harry Potter,” he confirmed unnecessarily.

The pitch pipe made an appearance.

“Having my baby...”

Harry’s mouth dropped open as the first lyric of Paul Anka and Odia Coates infamous song was belted into the Weasley’s entryway. 

  
“What a lovely way of saying   
How much you love me.”

He glanced over at Hermione who was now doubled over in glee, smothering her giggles into her hand with very little success. 

  
“Having my baby   
What a lovely way of saying   
What you're thinking of me.”

The wizard finished, winked, and disappeared in a familiar flurry of red and green confetti. Mouth still open in shock, Harry reached forward and retrieved the book that awaited him from the pile of colored paper, inhaling sharply when he saw the title. 

“The Complete Idiot’s guide to Fatherhood,” by Kevin Osborn.

His wife seemed to have calmed herself slightly, still hiccupping little laughs as he looked at her. His eyes filled with hope and wonder as the rest of the family disappeared from his consciousness and it was just her and him, Harry and Hermione, staring into each other’s eyes as he held his Christmas present in his hand.

“Really, Mione?” he asked hoarsely, glancing down at her still flat stomach and back up to her beautiful chocolate eyes that were now filled with a different kind of tears.

She bit her lip and nodded, and with a shout of joy, Harry swooped her into his arms and kissed her all over her wet face as she let out peals of giggles. 

Finally, he set her down and rested his forehead on hers, thinking with absolute wonder how all of this had started with a series of singing telegrams that he had thought were a hope and a prayer at best, and had ended with the love of his life giving him one the thing he had ever truly wanted. A family.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” Hermione whispered to him just before she pressed her lips to his in a sweet, loving kiss.

A Happy Christmas, indeed.


End file.
